A Father's Love, Part 1: The Dream
by hobgoblinn
Summary: A prophetic dream sends Willow back to London and the Watcher who has driven everyone away. Can she help him let go of his grief and guilt? Before the next apocalypse? Willow, Giles-centric. Genfic.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Father's Love Part 1 - The Dream 1/3

Rating: FRT, genfic, Willow, Giles centric

Summary: A prophetic dream sends Willow back to London and the Watcher who has driven everyone away. Can she help him let go of his grief and guilt? Before the next apocalypse?

Written for Nanowrimo 06 and LJ summer of giles 08

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television, the WB Television Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.

_A/N: Thanks to the earliest members of my f-list who provided such great encouragement and feedback at the time I was working on this in 06, especially antennapedia, thule222,willowgreen, ljs, and stormwreath, and to the wider f-list now that's been so patient with my wittering on about this and a fandom many of them don't know or care about. Thanks also to the kind mods of summer of giles, who allowed WIPs for this year's comm and worked with me changing and adding dates when real life got in the way. Finally, thanks to gillo for general encouragement and beta-ing this at various times over the past couple of years, and in advance for making time for the parts coming up that neither of us have had a proper go at yet. Any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own._

_Post Chosen, not remotely comics canon compliant (say that three times fast.)_

* * *

The pain was worse than anything she could remember feeling before. It came again, hot and searing, against the center of her breastbone. As her life force poured out, she felt a numb shock at the betrayal. Because somehow she knew the pain was caused, not by an enemy, but by someone she loved, and who had loved her just as dearly. The hand pressed against her was so small and delicate, totally incapable of hurting anything, or anyone. Yet it was.

She gasped awake then. Just a dream, she tried to convince herself, sitting up and trying to regain control over her breathing. But she knew it hadn't been a dream, once. The situation had been reversed, then, and it was Giles who had suffered this agony, and she who had caused it. She trembled as she remembered the day she'd nearly killed her old mentor and friend.

From the dim light filtering through the hotel room curtains she saw Kennedy stir slightly beside her, then drift back down to exhausted sleep. As she gathered more of her wits about her, Willow remembered the previous night had been rough on the Slayer. She grinned fondly, and a little sadly, that her nightmares were so common that Kennedy could sleep right through them.

But this had not been like her usual nightmares. Her past provided a rich array of scenes to haunt her nights, but she'd never seen this one from her victim's point of view. It was probably one of the things she felt most guilty about, but each time she'd relived it in her dreams before, the worst part had been gazing into Giles' haggard eyes, unable to stop herself. Not wanting to.

She rose and dressed quietly, then worked a brush through the tangles in her long hair. Kennedy slept on. Willow slipped to the sliding glass of the balcony door and pushed it open carefully, trying not to wake the Slayer. She knew Ken had had been out patrolling with a couple of the new slayers they'd found on this trip, and besides, she wanted some time to herself to reflect on her dream.

She leaned on the iron railing and looked out over the city, watching the sunrise. She was calm again now, but she had a slightly restless feeling that she needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere a lot less warm and bright. Two years ago, her hometown had disappeared from the face of the earth, and for a while another place had become a kind of home to her. She shivered now, thinking of London. And Giles.

There had always been a kind of connection between them, forged by shared dangers and averted apocalypses. But magic had deepened that link. So, she had to admit, had the misuse of it she'd been dreaming about earlier. Though she made a special effort now, to stay out of the minds of people around her, ever since that awful day she'd felt uncontrolled flashes of emotion that were not her own, whenever he was near. It had taken her a while to figure it out.

She remembered the first time she had summoned the courage to touch her power again. She had tapped into the Earth Magic binding all living things and called a flower through the earth, all the way from Paraguay to England. Behind her, she had suddenly felt a genuine relief, and amusement, and even a flash of joy, but also a flash of guilt. She had glanced up and seen him standing there, looked into his eyes and-- she had just known. What he was feeling. Joy for her, but sorrow, that he hadn't done a better job teaching her, recognizing her gifts and helping her steer clear of his own terrible mistakes.

It had been unsettling for the both of them. And it had not gotten any easier as they had worked together to avert the next couple of apocalypses. Which partially explained why Willow was now half a world away with Kennedy, organizing this regional branch of the Council, just as they had set up several other outposts in the two years since the closing of the Sunnydale Hellmouth.

But there had been more to it. Giles had changed, horribly, since he had returned to London to oversee the reformation of the Watcher's Council. He had become ever more closed off, cold, distant. Willow had been the last to leave, when the pain of seeing him like that, more dead than alive, had become too much for her to bear. When her every effort to draw him out was met with cold indifference, or contempt.

But something was up with him, now. The dream had awakened that connection between them again, and Willow just knew-- he needed her there. Whether or not he _wanted_ her there, was, of course, another question entirely. She sighed and wondered how she would broach the subject with Kennedy.

She heard the glass door scrape open behind her. Kennedy came over and rested her hands on Willow's shoulders. Together, they watched the city come awake below them. Then Kennedy squeezed a little harder before releasing her and reaching over to drag a chair next to hers. "So, when are you leaving?" she asked gently.

Willow looked up in surprise, and Kennedy grinned a little sadly. "There's someplace you need to be, and it's not here. Hasn't been for a while." Kennedy looked out over the railing for a moment, as if waiting for Willow to deny it. When she didn't, the Slayer went on, "I had a dream last night-- you and Giles and somebody else I couldn't see. Somewhere in London, I think. Lots of fog. And a little girl standing all alone under a street lamp."

Willow started a little at that. She remembered, now, that before the nightmare part of the dream, she'd seen something like that herself. She closed her eyes and waited for her lover's mind to brush up against her own, inviting her in. Then she looked on the scene she now recalled from her own dream, filtered through Kenedy's mind, of herself, and Giles, and the child under a streetlamp. She felt Kennedy reach out to take her hand, strengthening the connection.

Willow frowned as she continued to look through Kennedy's eyes. "I don't get the sense that anyone's in danger, do you?" she asked after a moment. Kennedy shook her head.

"I don't either. Not then. I get something bad before that moment, though. Nothing you can't handle. But more, I get a strong sense that you're needed there, for this. Whatever it is."

Willow pulled back and released the strong hand, but not before bringing it to her lips for a kiss. "I think so, too. Are you okay with that?"

Kennedy looked away again, but she nodded. "There's too much to do here right now for us both to leave, " she said simply.

There was a lot more to say, but neither of them was ready or willing to go there. Willow knew as she packed, that this was an ending of sorts. But not a bad ending. She and Kennedy were, and always would be, connected in some ways. But they both were on different paths, and it was time.

* * *

Willow kissed Kennedy goodbye at the airport security checkpoint. If she'd had any doubts about the change in their relationship, the kiss sealed it for her. Friendship, bittersweet resignation, but no tears, and no helpless longing, no sense that either of them would go on empty without the other. They were both strong in their own ways, and while they would always be close, they had grown apart in the two years since Sunnydale. And they both knew that their places were halfway across the world from each other. Kennedy in Rio, organizing and training the Slayers in this region. And Willow in London, by the side of the man she had once had a hopeless schoolgirl crush on.

She grinned a little at the memory. Then she frowned as she remembered how much she had hurt him, over the years. Such a trite but true saying, that we always hurt those we love most. And her failures and sins had been very much on the spectacular side of badness. Raising the dead with Darkest Magic. Killing Warren. Enjoying it. Trying to bring the world itself to an end. Deliberately nearly killing Giles, all the while knowing deep inside that she loved him, and that he was an innocent in most of the events which had led to her final breakdown.

She still marveled that he had brought her to England back then, had overseen her recovery, had fought behind closed doors for her right to continue to exist, to make amends, to grow back into being "just Willow." She knew some of it was fueled by his regret, that he hadn't seen her crisis coming, knowing so well from his experience what that was like. But some of it she had seen in his eyes and his emotions as he'd helped her through that long, terrible summer. In spite of everything, he still loved her for the shy, beautiful girl she had been. For Willow.

She boarded the plane, saying one final blessing under her breath to ward off random or directed evil, and wondered what would be waiting for her in London. Because the Giles she remembered, even from the summer he had gone "all Dumbledore" on her, had been gone for a very long time.

* * *

Willow hated flying. She'd thought once, when she first began learning witches were real, and she had power, that she'd one day be as comfortable on a broom as, oh, say, Harry Potter. But Giles, on hearing that, had witheringly informed her that witches did not actually hold with such nonsense. Much later, Tara had confided, "My mother always told me, _Well we can, but we don't. Power carries with it responsibility, my child_." It was a maxim Willow now lived by whenever possible, including forgoing teleportation except in real emergencies, and she was not yet convinced this qualified as such.

Which was why Willow was wedged into a seat next to a fat man who was snoring softly and who reeked of bourbon, and in front of a little boy whose mother thought it was adorable how he kept kicking the back of her seat. She sighed. At least the flight was nonstop. Only 9 hours. She had about 5 to go, and sleep was just not happening for her, though the little boy seemed to have conked out at last. Which was good, because she had seriously been resisting the temptation to turn him into a toad.

What would she find waiting for her, back in England? Giles hadn't returned her calls, so she wasn't even sure he would meet her, or delegate it to anyone else. She doubted he would be overjoyed to see her on his front steps, either. They hadn't fought exactly, that last time they'd talked, though she had tried to goad him into it. Anything, to get a reaction out of him.

But no. It had been like talking to a stranger. He'd briefed her about the contacts she could count on in Brazil, and the volumes she should ship back if she found any of them. Finally she'd interrupted, "Giles. I know all this."

He paused in mid-recitation. "Indeed. Very well then. I'm sure you have a great deal to finish up..."

"That can wait. I just thought, this was the last chance you and I would have for a while, just to, you know. Talk."

Giles ran his fingers through his hair. "Willow, I really am quite busy today." He began sorting through the loose paper on his desk.

"Why won't you talk to me?" she asked.

"I am talking to you," he replied reasonably.

"No. You're ignoring me and hoping I'll go away. Dammit, Giles. What the hell is wrong with you?"

He glanced up briefly over the rim of his glasses, then turned again to his work. "I am not the one cursing at my superiors," he replied mildly. "Perhaps you should take some time to rest over these next few days, if the stress is bothering you."

"But, Giles..." She trailed off. She knew then, that nothing she said would do any good, would bridge the chasm between them. The hopelessness of it overwhelmed her, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be as far from him as possible. She rose.

He did look at her directly then, and smile. "Have a safe voyage." But the smile came nowhere near his eyes. They were dead, and empty, and cold, and she realized now that was as much a part of why she'd left as anything else. After all they'd been through together, she couldn't bear to see him like that. And she couldn't stand by helplessly and watch him sink ever deeper into that abyss.

Neither could the rest of them. Buffy had taken Dawn off first, to a short crisis in Italy which had lengthened until Buffy finally admitted she wanted to be shallow, and frivolous, and normal, and something about cookie dough. Which Willow still didn't quite get. But the rest, yeah. Everyone agreed she had more than earned a break. And there was some organizing to be done in Rome. Dawn was thriving there, in school, in her private Watcher studies, and in just being a normal girl for really the first time in her life. Buffy was finally keeping her promise, showing her sister the world. All these things were of the good. Even Giles said so. But if anything, he'd become more withdrawn and distant after Buffy's departure, and all their overtures, trying to draw him out, had been in vain.

Faith had left next. "Fuck this. Tweed Central is gettin' on my last nerve, y'know? Giles won't even talk to me most of the time, but he makes me file a fucking report every time I stake a vamp in front of his little baby watchers. I need some breathing space, or I swear, one of these days I'm gonna stake _him_." When the chance came for her to go back to the States and take over the leadership of the Cleveland Hellmouth guard, she'd jumped at it.

For a while, Willow and Xander and Kennedy had lingered. At first, Xander had thrown himself into the work to forget his grief. She still remembered how proud she'd been, the day Xander had realized that he really was _good_ at it. But she knew he'd realized soon after that the one person he wanted most to see the change in him, was barely noticing his efforts. Was barely noticing anything, really. She hadn't been surprised, when Xander had decided to go to Africa and seek out the many new Slayers the coven had identified there.

He had come back from that final briefing with Giles so desolate. She remembered it now: him standing by the window, looking down at the golden halo of light from the nearby streetlamp, diffusing through the fog. "He's..." Xander swallowed, and his voice broke as he forced it out, "It's like he's not even there anymore, Will. He's like a robot, you know? Like he's acting all these mannerisms, but it's-- it's not real."

Willow came over and hugged him close as Kennedy slipped out to give them some time. Kennedy had quickly realized that some friendships were sacred, and that no matter how much Willow loved her, some things would always come before the two of them. Willow was grateful for the gesture, and the privacy. She murmured, her cheek resting against his strong chest, "It's just been hard for him..."

Xander pulled back and looked hard at her through his remaining eye. "No, Willow. Don't make excuses for him. If it's so hard for him, he should let us help. That's what friends do. That's what we've always done. But this-- I don't know what this is. I don't know who he is anymore."

Willow hugged him close again. "Neither do I," she whispered.

Xander had flown out the next morning. She'd watched him go, with Kennedy and a couple of the Slayers who remained from the Battle of Sunnydale, as it was now being called. And when a few more months of Willow's intensive effort had failed to have any effect whatever on the icy wall around her former mentor, she had taken the situation in Brazil gratefully, as a plausible way out of an unbearable situation. Giles had not even come to see them off.

And now she was going back to all that, without anyone at all to stand with her. All because of some dream which might not mean anything at all. But she knew, in her heart of hearts, something was about to happen. Something was about to change.

* * *

A/N: That's it for today. Look for the continuation on my next posting day for the comm, which will be July 19th.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: A Father's Love Part 1: The Dream 2/3

Rating: FRT, genfic, Willow, Giles centric

Summary: A prophetic dream sends Willow back to London and the Watcher who has driven everyone away. Can she help him let go of his grief and guilt? Before the next apocalypse?

Written for Nanowrimo 06 and LJ summer of giles 08

See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

_A/N: Thanks this time to the numerous denizens of my flist for some geeky sci-fi/ comic character names help, especially emelyemiller, firefly124, nemaihne, willowgreen, pagrd, faithchaos nd clavally. And thanks again to gillo for general encouragement and beta-ing this at various times over the past couple of years, and in advance for making time for the parts coming up that neither of us have had a proper go at yet. All remaining mistakes continue to be my own._

* * *

Willow made her way down the narrow ramp from the plane to the terminal. There was a damp chill to the air, and she knew it was late, local time, though she wasn't exactly sure how late. She emerged from the tunnel and looked around, even though she knew that it was unlikely the Watchers Council would have pulled the requisite strings to get one of their own in the Passengers-only area. In fact, there was probably nobody waiting for her at all.

But then there was a familiar reedy voice calling her name, and she saw Andrew moving eagerly through the crowd, brown hair a little shorter, but still sticking straight up in places. She marveled a little that the sight of Andrew, of all people, would stir in her such feelings of genuine pleasure and relief. But he had come a long way since Sunnydale, especially after he had got past his whole Darth Vader/ epic redemption phase. She had to admit, though, it did hurt, that Giles hadn't seen fit to come himself.

Willow let herself be swept into an exuberant hug, then let Andrew take her carry-on as they began to follow the other passengers to the baggage claim. "So, did, um, Giles send you?" Willow asked casually as they walked.

"Not exactly," the young man replied, not looking directly at her. "Um, Maia, from the coven, you remember her? The one who looks kinda like Princess Leia, not in "New Hope", more like in "Return of the Jedi where she had that really…."

"Andrew..."

"Okay, well, anyway. She told me she had a dream last night, so I checked Giles' calendar and saw you weren't on it. So I, um, decided to come. You know. Just in case." He cleared his throat, found a spot to look at on the still empty baggage carousel, and added, "He's been very busy lately." Apologetic, but still that fierce loyalty.

Willow sighed. "Well, he didn't call me back, and he obviously wasn't here tonight. I'm really glad you came. I should have called you anyway, but I kinda hoped he'd—" She broke off. After the way things had been when she'd finally left, she wasn't sure what she'd hoped. Though it was pretty obvious she'd been wildly unrealistic about it.

Andrew looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Willow. I'm sure he didn't mean to—"

"It's all right, Andrew," she stopped him, with a gentle finality. They waited in silence until the baggage began to move, then picked up her suitcase from the carousel and made their way through the terminal. Andrew, she well recalled, was constitutionally incapable of holding his peace for long, though, so Willow tried to engage her mind in the gossip of the doings of mutual friends and acquaintances she had not seen for many months, letting Andrew's cheerfully desperate prattle just wash over her. At least she was home.

When they finally made it out to the car, Andrew opened the door for her and got her settled inside before closing it and stowing her luggage in the boot. He then opened his own door and settled behind the wheel. He gripped it tightly, tension radiating from him in waves, then turned the key. The radio flared to life, in the middle of a news program. Willow took pity on him then and reached over to pat him on the hand. "Andrew," she said, and he glanced up, startled. She gave him a warm, reassuring smile and repeated what she'd said earlier. "I'm really glad you came."

He made a visible effort to relax, and Willow wondered if she would always have this effect on him. They'd worked together at the coven, in the months after the fall of Sunnydale, and they had forged tenuous bonds of trust and even affection. But Andrew was hypersensitive to the emotions of those around him, and still narcissistic enough to assume their moods were some kind of reaction to him.

And just now, she could tell he was trying to bring himself to say some things he was sure she wouldn't like. Things about how Giles was, and why he wasn't here to pick her up himself. Willow gave up trying to block out his broadcasted thoughts, which were threatening at this point to drown out the sports recap on the radio. She reached forward and switched it off, then turned to him.

"Okay, Andrew. Spill. What's going on?"

Andrew froze in the act of shifting the car into reverse, then returned the gearshift to neutral. He switched off the ignition, then looked at the concrete wall in front of them for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Okay. I should have known you'd pick up on it. I mean, you've always been like Deana Troi in Next Generation, or maybe more like Jean Grey-Summers, especially when you went bad that one time but then came back like just like Dark Phoenix in issue number…."

"Andrew..." He'd improved a lot, but he still tended to ramble off on his geeky little tangents when he was nervous. He swallowed and Willow saw him struggle to regain his calm Watcher persona. After a minute, he began to speak very quietly.

"Things have been bad since you left. I mean, like, really bad."

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Tell me."

"Ok, like, he comes to the office every day. He reads every report. He signs them all. He never misses a meeting. But-- every day, he looks, I don't know, a hundred years older than the day before. I don't think he sleeps much. I finally took Maia's suggestion and started scheduling lunch meetings just to make sure he actually eats something during the day."

His voice caught then, and Willow realized with a shock that the young man was actually on the verge of tears. "I've tried. I've really tried to help. But there's only so much I can do, you know? It's like he's in hell, and -- he _wants_ to be." He glanced over anxiously. Then, in a smaller voice, "And please don't turn me into a newt."

She sighed. "It's not your fault, Andrew. I know you've been doing your best." She was suddenly very tired. "Well, let's get going."

Andrew turned the key in the ignition, as if grateful to have that conversation behind them. "Where to, Milady?" he asked, trying for a little levity.

His grin faded when she replied quietly, "Giles' place."

* * *

Andrew pulled up to the curb in front of Giles' home, a modest stone Georgian terraced house in a solidly middle-class section of West London. He switched off the engine and looked down the quiet street in front of them. Fog was beginning to rise from the damp earth. For a long while, neither spoke. Then, "It's late," he observed.

Willow nodded. "Yeah, it is."

There was another pause. "Um..want me to help you in with your bags and all?"

"Nah. I travel-- I travel pretty light, these days."

Andrew breathed a sigh of relief, and Willow certainly sympathized. She herself was also in no hurry to face the man on the other side of that imposing oak door. But it had to be done. With a final deep breath of her own, Willow opened her door, and Andrew sprang out to pop open the boot and pull out her lone suitcase and small carry on. He handed them over to her and clanged the boot closed, then fidgeted a little, looking down at his scuffed sneakers, as if unsure what to say.

Willow put down her bags and hugged him again, once again feeling that split second of tension before he relaxed into her affectionate embrace. Willow thought, not for the first time, that Andrew had not been on the receiving end of many of these, growing up, and she felt sad for him. She caught without meaning to, his sense of wonder, that their relationship had grown to this, how he wondered if this was what having a sister would have been like. If it would have made a difference in how he had turned out. But mostly she nearly drowned in his relief, that he was no longer alone in trying to stave off the dissolution of Rupert Giles.

They broke apart, and Willow gathered up her bags and turned resolutely toward the grey stone building at the end of the walk. Andrew watched as she mounted the steps. Just as she put her bags down to pull back the heavy brass knocker, he called out softly, "Go get 'em, She-Witch."

Willow turned back and shot him her delicate, elf-like grin, the one that had caused so many in the new Council to underestimate her, until they'd learned better. Andrew quickly got back in the car, and he was already well down the block before Willow finally brought herself to knock. The metallic clank echoed a little in the stillness. No way Giles would miss it.

It was damp out-- of course, being London-- and it was rather cold out as well. After months in sunny South America, this California native's thin blood was definitely feeling the chill. She counted slowly to twenty in Sumerian, then knocked again, more loudly.

He wasn't asleep. She was sure of that. Not only could she feel it, through the wards he, or someone, had set up, but she knew his habits. He seldom was in bed before 2:00 a.m., and even then, he did not sleep particularly well. It was after midnight, but she had seen the light glowing from his study window as they'd pulled up. She gave him to another count of twenty, wondering idly what she was going to do for Plan B. She was just raising her hand for a third try, when she heard the bolts click back with a solid thunk. The door creaked open, and she was looking up into the face of her old mentor and friend.

She grinned nervously up at him. "Hey, Giles."

He gazed down on her, blinking, eyebrows creasing in confusion. "Willow, um..." He stood aside as she picked up her bags. "Do...um..."

He looked rumpled, as if he'd been battling some heavy research, and losing. Willow passed him and breathed in the slightly musty but warmer air of the entry corridor. She tried to ignore his feelings of being invaded, and the sound as he closed the door, then slammed the bolt home with deceptive force. She heard him clear his throat.

"Ah... did you have a pleasant flight?" His voice sounded a little rusty, as if he were unaccustomed to using it much these days. And there was a slightly accusatory edge, too, like he suspected she had teleported all the way from Rio to his doorstep.

Willow was glad she'd prepared herself mentally for weird, not to mention garden variety passive-aggressive hostility. She replied, with forced cheerfulness, "Yeah, it was okay. Kid on the plane behind me was a little annoying. Why do parents let kids like that out of the house, anyway? I swear, I wanted to turn him into a newt." She caught his sharp glance and added quickly, "B--but I didn't. I totally controlled myself. Which is more than I can say for the kid and his mom." She gave him an uncertain grin, watching his thoughts flicker behind his eyes, but deliberately not reaching for them.

Giles gazed at her piercingly for another moment, then dismissed whatever he was going to say, opting instead for, "Here, let me take your bags."

Willow shook her head. "No, I'm good. They're not that heavy." She shifted her hold on them slightly to get a better grip.

"Suit yourself." He turned to lead the way down his narrow hallway. Over his shoulder, he asked the obligatory question, "Would you like some tea?"

"I'd love some tea," she replied fervently. It might not thaw Giles, or their relationship, but at the moment, she'd settle for getting back some feeling in her stiff fingers.

He flipped on the landing light, then continued on down the hall toward the kitchen. "You know where the guest rooms, are, of course. I'll just let you go up get settled," he said, sounding a little less now like someone who was pissed to have an uninvited and unwelcome guest appear on his doorstep well after midnight. Yeah. Not at all the old Giles, but it would do for a start.

* * *

Willow came down into the kitchen to find Giles peering blankly into his refrigerator. He glanced up as she entered and pulled a rueful face. "Not much here, I'm afraid. I have been rather busy lately. I'll go out and get some things tomorrow."

"That's okay," Willow said. "I can take care of it."

"Oh...ah... are you staying long, then?" Giles asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Don't know yet," Willow replied simply. There was an uncomfortable silence, as she did not ask aloud why he had failed to meet her at the airport, and Giles just as pointedly avoided asking why she'd come here tonight. Giles cracked first.

He closed the refrigerator door, then said, without turning, "I'm sorry I didn't meet you tonight, Willow. Quite honestly, I thought you'd call back and we could make more definite arrangements."

_For that, read: I thought I could talk you out of coming_, Willow thought.

But Giles was continuing, "And then tonight, I got caught up in some research, and I simply lost track of time." He had the grace to look embarrassed, but there was also the undercurrent of irritation. He was entirely too busy, and there were far too many people and situations and apocalypses vying for his attention these days, for him to have the time or energy to deal with a house guest just now, and an uninvited one, at that. Willow caught the vibe loud and clear.

She ignored it, though, and moved to sit at the table, clearing two spaces, carefully keeping the books and notes in order as she added them to the stratified layers of similar material on the rest of the table. She saw Giles bite back a protest, a "Be careful with that," knowing quite well that she knew his organization system, possibly better than he himself did. Instead, he poured steaming water from the kettle into the teapot, while she moved behind him to pull two mugs from his cabinet.

When the tea things were gathered, she returned to the table and waited for Giles to join her. The tea steeped while Giles rummaged around for several minutes. At length, he sat across from her and said, "I'm afraid I don't have any biscuits, and well, the less said about milk, the better."

Willow bounced up. "I know this is sacrilege, but..." She pulled open a low cabinet and began searching through it, then pulled out a container of powdered, non-dairy coffee creamer. "Yeah. Thought Buffy left some here."

Giles sighed as she set it on the table between them. "You Americans have the most appalling tastes," he murmured. But it sounded like an echo, like something he was repeating because it was expected of him, and not from anything to do with this moment.

"Yep," Willow agreed with forced cheerfulness. She stirred the powder and sugar into her mug, then offered the container to Giles, who sighed and took it.

"So," he said, finally. "You and Kennedy had a dream."

"And Maia, apparently," Willow added. At his questioning look, she explained, "That's how Andrew knew I was coming in tonight."

"Of course. Very well, then. Continue."

Willow shrugged. "I don't have any details yet," she admitted. "Just a feeling, that I needed to be here. So..." She sipped her tea, enjoying the warmth soaking into her fingers as she held the mug in both hands. "I'll just stick around until more information presents itself. And in the meantime, I can, you know, make myself useful." Her eyes wandered over the scattered books and notes on the table around them.

Giles bowed to the inevitable. "I could use a hand cataloguing some of this research," he admitted grudgingly. "However..."

"And re-stocking your fridge," Willow added. He scowled at her, and she decided now was not the time to bring up how much weight he seemed to have lost since she'd last seen him. But though he was looking a bit frail, his voice had lost none of its authority.

"However," he repeated, more firmly, "wouldn't you be more comfortable at the coven, or in your old rooms at the Watcher Arms?"

The Watcher Arms was an old hotel a few blocks from the new Council Headquarters, so named by the Scoobies when they convinced Giles to buy it convert it to all Watcher/ Slayer housing. Willow was surprised to hear her rooms were still vacant. And for a second, she was tempted. She knew how hard it was going to be, living in close quarters with Giles. He was a stubborn man who had lived alone for probably ever, and he was impossible at the best of times.

But no. She couldn't shake the feeling that when the time came, he'd need her to be there. And if that meant staying in uncomfortably close quarters, so be it. She'd survived worse. The last year in Sunnydale, for starters. "I can't explain it, Giles," she said aloud. "But this is important. Trust me?"

He avoided her eyes. "Of course." He drained his mug, making a face at the chalky creamer aftertaste she'd sometimes heard him complain about, long ago, in Sunnydale, when he'd had to fall back on it in a crisis, or in the aftermath of one of Xander's growth spurts. Her childhood friend had frequently been responsible for eating Giles out of house and home. As had they all, she supposed. Kind of an interesting turn now, that she should be planning on restocking his fridge.

Giles rose now and carried his mug to the sink. "But it's very late, and I'm sure you must be tired. We can talk again tomorrow." He rinsed out his mug and placed it in the drain as he always had. Willow followed suit while he rummaged in the drawer under the telephone. He pulled out a key.

"I'll be leaving early for a meeting," he told her. "If you're intent upon staying here," and his voice left little doubt that he would have preferred another arrangement, "...then you'll be needing this. Good night."

* * *

A/N: Look for the conclusion of this first half of the story on my last Summer of Giles posting day, July 25th. Thanks to all who read, and more to those who reviewed.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: A Father's Love Part 1: The Dream 3/3

Rating: FRT, genfic, Willow, Giles centric

Summary: A prophetic dream sends Willow back to London and the Watcher who has driven everyone away. Can she help him let go of his grief and guilt? Before the next apocalypse?

Written for Nanowrimo 06 and LJ summer of giles 08

See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

_A/N: Thanks this time to both gillo, who beta'ed this ages ago, and sahiya who stepped in at the last minute for what I thought was a simple mythology sanity check (none detected, thanks for asking) and ended up challenging me to make the new, and old, material a lot better. Thanks also to everyone who has read and reviewed. _

* * *

It was almost noon according to the clock by her bed when Willow opened her eyes. She was disoriented for a moment, wondering when it had gotten so cold and damp in Rio, and what was with the dark wood tones to all the furniture?

Then she caught the slight musty smell in the air and remembered-- she was in a guest bedroom at Giles' place, in London. And he was being all repressy and disapproving about it, but dealing. Well, kinda dealing. She almost wanted to pull the blankets over her head and not think about how much Giles was or was not dealing, but hunger was becoming an issue. Also, her bladder. So she stretched, then dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom.

It wasn't until she'd brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face (cold, of course) that she remembered the stunning array of lack of food she'd seen in Giles' cupboards last night. If she hoped to eat anytime today, much less get Giles to, she was going to have to go out. So she dressed quickly, then called Andrew while brushing through her hair. He greeted her before she even had a chance to draw a breath.

"Willow, hi. Both survived the night, I see."

"Very funny. How'd you know it was me?" she asked.

"Caller ID rocks. And Giles never calls my office from home," he replied. "Sometimes he does call my cell phone, when he needs me to, you know, do important, well, okay, when he wants me to pick up his dry cleaning or something... Which I guess is probably what you want, too, huh?"

"Not dry cleaning," Willow replied. "But yeah, I could use a lift, and a native guide. Can you pick me up?"

"Sure! I could totally do that."

"I need to get some things from the store. And maybe some lunch?"

Andrew agreed to pick her up in half an hour and hung up-- no, rang off, Willow remembered. She was going to have to get her mind around all the little quirky British-isms, now that she was back. Besides, she'd always loved those little linguistic differences, and puzzling over how they came about.

Downstairs, she took stock of the cupboards and began to dump some truly disturbing things from Giles' fridge. Yeah. There was another indicator of how far this man was from the the Giles she remembered. They had sometimes teased him about it, in Sunnydale, his near obsession with household cleanliness, especially in the kitchen. Even that awful first year she and Buffy had been at college, when he had been so depressed and at loose ends, he had still managed to dust the place twice a week, for goddess' sake, and keep his spice rack in alphabetical order.

Looking around the house now, she estimated it had been months since any surface had been up close and personal with a dust rag. And unlike most bachelors she'd known, before that time and after, he did not tend to live on Ramen noodles, peanut butter and take out. Certainly he had never let his fridge get to the point where it looked like some of the things in there were almost ready to go out and kill some Ramen noodles on their own before spawning more of their kind. She dumped the last container into the bin without opening it, then washed her hands in the hottest water she could stand, thinking maybe she wasn't that hungry after all. To distract herself from wondering what she'd gotten herself into here, she began looking at the research on the table.

There were dozens of books stacked there, and some official looking file folders. Loose parchment showed a few languages she recognized, and several more she didn't. She flipped open a file at random and began to read. She put it down and switched to a different one, then to a book with certain pages marked with loose paper, scribbled almost to illegibility with notes in his cramped handwriting. Prophecies. He was researching prophecies. And these-- were these about Slayers? As in _plural_?

Andrew arrived before she'd made it through the top layer on Giles' kitchen table. She met him at the door, and though she thought she was covering her concern well, he frowned immediately and asked, "What's the matter?"

Willow shook her head. "Nothing. Just a late night." Andrew looked dubious, and she was relieved when he let it pass. They headed off to the local market, where Willow stocked up on staples like milk, bread, and Caffeine-Free Coke. Well, actually, it was Regular for now, but she fully intended to do a little magic to swap this case with one from a more civilized elsewhere in the world as soon as they got home. She didn't often tamper with the universe that way, but considering what she was going to be up against with Giles, she freely admitted she was going to need the comfort of her old favorite Sunnydale beverage.

She also selected a number of the raw ingredients for meals that Giles had often shared with them, all those years ago. He'd taught her to cook most of these dishes, though there were a couple she'd picked up over the last year that she was sure he would like. She remembered, as she selected some bright peppers, how her mother had disapproved of her cooking lessons, until she found out they were with Giles. "A man who doesn't fall into all those stereotypes of traditional roles would be a good influence on you, honey. Just don't stay out too late."

_Good influence, ha_, she thought. _If only she knew_. But somehow the long ago memory of the man that had taught her how to make the best chicken soup on the planet left her that much more determined to try to reach him now.

"Do you want me to see about getting you a rental car?" Andrew asked as they drove back. "Um-- not that I mind driving you-- I kind of like it, really, but I know how you like being independent."

"Thanks, Andrew. But I have a hard time with the backwards way they drive over here, and almost anywhere I need to go, I can get via the Tube. I just needed more help this time because his cupboards were so bare."

Andrew made a face. "I was afraid of that," he said. Then he brightened a little. "But with you around, that'll be at least two meals a day he'll be getting now-- three if you get up early with him and make him eat breakfast."

"And if he doesn't try to sleep at the office again," Willow said, remembering how many mornings she'd come in early to find him slumped at his desk, or stretched out on the sofa in his office.

"Oh, he hasn't done that for a while now. He's usually out before rush hour starts." Willow raised an eyebrow, wondering if the research she'd found might explain that atypical behavior. Even when he had been sleeping at home, Giles and leaving early were not concepts she would associate with one another. "He might even beat us home now," Andrew added obliviously.

Indeed, Giles was unlocking his door when they pulled up. He glanced back, then set his umbrella and satchel just inside the door before coming to help them with the grocery bags.

"H--hello, Mr. Giles," Andrew said with his nervous grin.

"Hello, Andrew, Willow. Here, let me carry something."

Between them, they got the groceries inside in only one trip. Andrew didn't linger long, though, stammering some lame excuse about some work he had to finish up. Willow teased him about having a girlfriend, and the young man blushed to the roots of his hair. Giles didn't seem to notice, flipping through his mail and pointedly ignoring them both.

After Willow came back from seeing Andrew out, she found him staring at the bags looking a little lost. When she started putting things away in the cupboards he roused himself to help her. But it was awkward, and they kept getting in each other's way as they never had in a kitchen before. It was very strange, and a little sad.

To distract herself, Willow asked, "How was your day?"

"Fine." His voice was clipped and flat. He shot her a disapproving look as he deposited more powdered creamer in the cupboard.

"What? You were almost out. Anyway, I got real milk, too, you purist."

He sniffed, but did not otherwise deign to reply. Willow let the silence lengthen, knowing that sometimes in the past he would break down under its weight. But not this time. Stubborn man. She sighed and launched herself into the breach.

"So, what shall we have for dinner? " she asked him brightly.

"I'm not very hungry. Whatever you like." That sounded a little less hostile. He was starting to lose interest in their domestic chore and she caught his eyes wandering back to the table a few times.

Well, the good news there was, as distracted as he seemed to be, he might be easy to trick into eating. It wouldn't be the first time she'd played that particular game. She started assembling the ingredients for a kind of Mediterranean chicken stew she knew he particularly liked. As Giles put the milk into the refrigerator and gathered the bags for the rubbish bin, she asked him, "So, got any big plans tonight?"

"Not really. A little research, perhaps." He went over to the table, switched on the lamp and began sorting through his papers. He was still a little out of sorts about her presence, but now she was getting more a resigned weariness from him.

"Sounds good," she said, as she began chopping brightly colored bell peppers-- orange, red, green. "What are you researching? I saw something about Slayers on top there. Wouldn't that have been cool to know _before_ we used the scythe?"

"Well, yes," Giles agreed mildly. He surprised her by going on, "Except that, until you performed that spell, it was always assumed that the plural was a mistake in the text. From what I can gather, many of them are just that-- we know the events to which the prophecies refer, and they invariably involve just the single Slayer. Or, sadly, a quick succession of them. But there are some oddities, and I decided it might behoove us to review them."

"And?" Willow prompted, as he fell silent, looking more closely at a scrap of parchment on top of one stack.

"Hmm? Oh. I haven't got very far yet. You're welcome to help me after you finish there-- your Sanscrit is a good deal better than mine."

Willow made a face. "Gee, thanks," she said. "Don't you have other people who could be working on it, though?"

"Perhaps. But we are still spread dangerously thin, and many of our most gifted scholars died in the... the explosion." Willow felt the sudden upswelling of grief, quickly forced back down, as if he could not spare the time or energy to go there. He continued, "And I have no idea how sensitive some of this information might be. It seemed prudent for me to review it first, before passing it on."

That, and, Willow could tell, he missed it. Research. Doing something useful. She'd seen it before-- the bureaucracy was killing him. If he had chosen to take on something he found pleasurable, maybe that was a good sign.

She set the stew simmering on the stove and washed her hands, then came over to join him at the table.

* * *

They spent several hours together that night, going through the whole of the papers and volumes he'd collected. It was a little like the old days in Sunnydale, the first few times she had done research with him. He was uncomfortable in just the same way as then, when he had struggled to keep the conversation strictly professional and didactic, stammering in response to her friendly overtures or questions outside the scope of their business.

Now of course, he simply sidestepped those as if she hadn't spoken. It was just as effective at keeping their conversation entirely on the research, and Willow was beginning to feel 16 years old again. But other than that, he was talking to her. Last time, by the time she'd left, he hadn't been. So, focus on the positive, that was her motto.

And then she ran across something odd.

It was a snippet really, marked in a much larger and heavier volume. It had been included because it referred to the "time of the Slayers," but it was really about one girl who was to come after that. She would apparently be instrumental in saving the world and bringing about a new age of peace, though it looked like she herself would not live to see it. But the word that really caught Willow's eye was the Sumerian for "mixed blood."

"Giles? Have you seen this?"

He looked up. "Is that Gregson? No, not yet. Why?"

"C'mere and take a look at this." They'd moved to the sitting room, and Willow was on the sofa, while Giles was using the small writing table by the window. He came and sat down and she handed him the book, along with the notebook in which she had jotted part of the translation.

"Slayers are all mixed blood, aren't they? Human and demon, to get the powers? Why would this one be special?"

Giles' face had turned quite grave. "I've seen this word before. There are a number of old texts handed down from the first Watchers. The current Watcher's Handbooks are based on those older documents. This word generally comes up in the context of stressing the importance of keeping proper distance between Slayer and Watcher, to prevent the mixing of their blood."

Willow had never heard this, but suddenly a lot of things began to make an awful sort of sense to her. Giles wouldn't look at her, and Willow was even more sure of it— that old restriction had been part of what had come between him and Buffy. On his side, anyway. She'd be willing to bet Buffy didn't even know about it.

Those two had always had such complex feelings for each other, whether they would admit it or not. Willow had often wondered how either one of them could find someone who could understand them as well as they could each other. Theirs had been a true partnership, before all the badness that had come out of the fall of Sunnydale, and for a time after. But looking back, if Giles' reaction to Spike hadn't had a bit of jealous lover written all over it, she would hand in her Wicca card.

Now, though, she just asked, "What happens, if the bloodlines get mixed?"

"Well, first, the mystical gifts passed down through the Watcher families would cease to be passed down. Children of such a union, if there were any at all, would be born into a world where magic is real and demons would be drawn to them because of their connection to the Slayer, but they would be without protection. As it is, the Watcher gifts are not inherited by all their children. So it would constitute an almost criminal negligence, squandering the chance to have children who might inherit the gifts their generation might need."

"What about on the Slayer side? Do those children inherit anything special, normally?"

Giles looked down at the book in his hand and admitted quietly, "They seldom live to have children. Robin Wood is the only exception I know of in modern times. And while he is a Watcher, he does not possess any mystical gifts. Even his ability as a fighter was all learned through normal means, though he did have a very capable Watcher to train him."

"But how do Watchers know who's in the Slayer bloodlines? They're scattered all over the world and seem to spring up out of nowhere. We're still finding some. What if one had met Joyce years ago, before she met Buffy's dad?"

"Joyce would not have been considered part of the Slayer line. How Potentials receive their powers is a subject not clearly understood, but all the old texts on the subject, and the modern research we have done on families of Potentials and Slayers would indicate that it is itself of mystical origin."

"And Potentials never spring up in Watcher families."

Giles looked a little startled at that. "No, they don't," he replied thoughtfully. He looked at her then, really looked, as they both came to the same conclusion.

"Stupid patriarchs," Willow fumed. "Making damned sure their precious daughters would never have to fight."

Giles looked a little ill as he slumped back against the cushions. "Indeed."

Willow turned back to the text. "Could it be referring to one of our non-mystical Watchers and a Slayer now? Could this girl come from a union like that?"

"No. The word is very specific to mystical blood, which most of our current Watchers do not possess. I do not know what to make of it really." He looked very old, suddenly, and she heard him add, very softly, "I hope I don't live to see it."

Willow hoped none of them did.

* * *

That night, Willow dreamed again-- this time, the dream she had seen through Kennedy's mind, the morning she had set out to return to London. She saw the streetlamp. Snow beginning to fall. The world in shadow just outside the lamplight. And the little girl, her eyes wide, looking up at the glittering flakes.

She was maybe 7 or 8, Willow guessed. Long, light brown hair falling in unruly waves down her shoulders. Hood of her pink parka thrown back, snow catching in her hair, on her long lashes. A look of wonder in her wide, intelligent eyes. The rest of her face was indistinct and hazy. There was something very likable, and at the same time, very familiar about her. Willow stepped forward, but before she could speak, she felt a burning in her chest.

She woke to find herself sitting up in bed, breathing hard, as if she had been running for miles with something awful chasing her. Which, given her life, was not such an impossibility-- so she looked around to reassure herself that she was safe in bed, or as safe as she could be in this uncertain world. She switched on the lamp on her bedside table, checked the clock. 5:30 a.m. Goddess.

But she was too keyed up now to sleep, so after a few minutes, she thrust aside the covers and got up and dressed. Just as she put her hand on her door knob, she heard a creak on the stairs. What was Giles doing up at this ungodly hour?

She heard the front door open, then close quietly and the key scrape in the lock. She went quickly to a window overlooking the front walk, and sure enough, there was the Watcher, dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt. As she followed him with her eyes, he began to jog easily down the dimly lit street. Two smaller figures emerged from the alley after he had passed and began to trail him. She reached out with her mind to confirm it-- yes. Slayers.

She breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed, from the feelings she picked up from the two Slayers, that Giles' pre-dawn jogs were not as secret as he believed them to be, and that they had been keeping him safe while allowing him the illusion of solitude for quite some time now. She went downstairs and put the kettle on, then began pulling out a frying pan, butter and eggs for breakfast.

* * *

They settled into an uneasy routine over the weeks that followed. Giles still gritted his teeth sometimes at the loss of privacy, but he had long ago developed ways to protect his personal space, dealing with three unruly teenagers who had dogged his every step through high school and beyond. Willow gave him as much space as she could, and she helped him with the research. And she quietly took over some of the mindless bureaucratic duties he so hated, either delegating them to more appropriate people or finding ways to eliminate them altogether.

She had thought this would lessen Giles' stress, but while he physically seemed to be improving, gaining back some needed weight, looking less tired and ill, his moods did not improve. He seemed to be on edge all the time. And he certainly would not talk to Willow, or admit that anything at all was troubling him. He seemed to be playing an expected role, the kindly avuncular Watcher. But the gentle smiles never reached his eyes, and there were times when she felt his emotions so tightly clamped down, that she wondered how he bore the strain.

She sought out some old friends from the coven, like Maia, and she also began spending time with Andrew, who filled a little of the void left by Xander's absence. He was really growing into a surprisingly decent young man, and she was pleased to see it. These close friends gave her the emotional grounding, the love and support, that made it possible for her to get through early mornings and late nights with a Giles who both was and was not the man she remembered.

And the dreams made everything worse. She woke earlier than usual one morning, gasping for breath against the sorrow that welled through her soul. As she began to calm, she realized that the emotions weren't hers. But Giles ignored her timid knock at his door, and the next morning, he blandly denied having dreamed at all.

"No, I can't say that I was disturbed last night," he said mildly, sipping at his tea and scanning the Guardian much as he had once skimmed the local papers in Sunnydale. Willow just stared at him, open mouthed, at how easily the lie came to his lips.

"Oh. Huh. That's interesting," she said finally. She gave him a final hard look, which he ignored a little too obliviously, and she tipped the last of the scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Oh well, just finish those up for me, okay? There's too little to save."

He glanced over the top of his paper at that. "Willow," he said disapprovingly, "if you are trying to give my cholesterol a fatal boost, I can assure you there are faster and much easier ways to accomplish it." But he ate them nevertheless, then checked his watch and cursed under his breath.

"Have to dash," he said, collecting his bag and shrugging into his heavy coat. "You're sure you'll be all right, taking the Tube by yourself this morning?"

Willow rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine, Giles."

She listened to him bang out the front door. Only then did she allow the memory of the previous night to wash over her, and to feel the terror, the despair, which he kept at bay, goddess knew how, during the day. And she wept for his pain, and for how helpless she felt in the face of it. But she didn't bring the matter up again.

* * *

They continued in this stasis for several weeks, as October wore on into dreary November. Until the night that one of the local Slayers, only weeks out of training, was killed on a routine patrol. Her Watcher barely escaped with his life, and a couple of her companions were injured. Willow was sitting on the couch in Giles' study collating some of their notes when his cell phone, sitting at arm's length on his desk, suddenly began to beep. No silly ring tones, all business. Willow smiled, but the grin faded as she saw the tension in his shoulders as he looked up at it. Frozen. Afraid to answer it. Unable not to.

"H-hello. Rupert Giles."

The temperature in the room began to drop as he listened in silence. Then, a slight clearing of his throat. "And there's no chance she will...No. Well, then. Um... what about Hoskins? Is he awake, alert? Does he know yet? No, all right. Yes, leave that to me, please. And... um, look up the information about Felicia's next of kin for me-- I'll need that straight away." Another longer pause, then, very quietly, "Thank you, Andrew. I'll be there as soon as I can." He rang off, then stared off into space for a long moment.

Willow stirred first. "I'll get our coats," she said, laying her books aside.

Giles looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time. "What? Oh, no, Willow. It's very late. You needn't get out tonight..."

Willow just looked at him, and he sighed at last, rising. "All right," he said. "But Willow," he said, as she stepped out into the hallway ahead of him, "You must let me deal with this my own way. All right?"

"Sure," she said softly. He had been dealing, or not dealing, with things his own way for a while now, and she was sure the frequent deaths in their ranks was a big part of what he was repressing. How much worse could it be?

The night passed in a horrible, cold blur. Willow sat with Felicia's classmates, some of whom had witnessed her death. She watched as Giles broke the news to Felicia's Watcher, one of the Council researchers who had been delayed in traffic the morning his compatriots had died in the bomb blast. He had been pressed into service rather against his will when the spell that had activated all the Potentials meant that there were not nearly enough qualified Watchers to go around. And now, he was hearing that his Slayer was gone.

The survivor's guilt was thick enough to cut with a knife. Giles went to each of the affected Slayers and Watchers, offering comfort, a shoulder to cry on, encouragement. Then he left the infirmary, after some quiet words with one of their doctors, to keep an eye on Hoskins, and two of the Slayers who had been with them when it happened. Willow trailed behind him in a daze, the emotions of the others overwhelming her own feelings, for she had known all of these people personally, too. She watched as Andrew met Giles at his office door and handed him a folder. They spoke quietly together for a few moments. Then he paused, gripped the boy's shoulder bracingly, and disappeared into his office without another word. The door clicked shut behind him. Andrew turned and she saw the tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

She came forward and hugged him close, let him lose a little of that control he had been clinging to since the news had first come in. He had been much closer to this group than she. But then he pulled himself together and wiped his face on his handkerchief.

"I, uh, I have to go find my tie," he said.

Willow wiped at her own eyes with the kleenex she had stowed in her coat pocket before they'd left the house, and looked at him, puzzled.

"We-- we have to go tell Felicia's folks. Giles and I. We always do." He led the way back to his own desk and pulled out the dark blue tie folded neatly in the top drawer, began knotting it carefully, as if his attention to this small detail were the most important thing in the universe at that moment.

Willow glanced back towards Giles' door as he opened it, switched off his light, and straightened his own collar, adjusting his immaculate tie. Their eyes met, and she saw him, really saw him, for just a second. Then, the ice slid between them, and he looked to Andrew. "Ready to go?" Andrew nodded, sniffing hard and pulling himself together a little more.

The cold eyes turned back to Willow. "I hate to ask it of you, Willow, but could you stay here for me? I trust you to handle anything else that might come up in my absence. Felicia's family lives fairly close by. I shouldn't be long." Andrew's thoughts told her he would probably be sitting up with them for the rest of the night, telling them how their daughter had met her end, how proud they should be of her, that her sacrifice had made the world a safer place. But she just nodded.

"I'll be fine, Giles. You two go on." She watched them stride down the hall, disappear into the stairwell, shoulders squared, resolute.

* * *

_A/N: Here endeth part 1. To be continued after Summer of Giles in Part 2: Mother and Child and Part 3, whose title I will withold for now in case I come up with anything less lame. Feel free to leave feedback; the muse likes her little snacks._


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